


selfish

by smudgywords



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fights, Gen, Henry Bowers Being an Asshole, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Redemption, Victor Criss Has A Little Sister, Victor Criss-centric, er sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 11:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20777630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgywords/pseuds/smudgywords
Summary: Hell rains around Victor, and he isn’t so sure if his ‘friends’ see it as well, but judging by the lost look in Belch’s eyes, he sees it too. Another loser caught up in a tricky spiderweb. It doesn’t matter, they aren’t friends. No, none of them are his friends, in fact. Henry and Patrick? Psychopaths. No, fuck, they aren’t his friends. God, are they?The half-redemption of Victor Criss.





	selfish

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this is mostly inspired by the fact i saw on the wikipedia page for it (book) where victor tries to help the losers club. I also never see fics that center mainly on Victor Criss so I thought I'd give it a go!
> 
> This is in no way a full redemption of him, but it is a a starting step.

Victor Criss wasn’t smart. 

He followed his gut (pierced, gushing blood) and it led him to a net of presumed safety, after all, he is the monster he wants to avoid. He became the thing he tried so hard to stay away from, smoking cigarettes straight through the filter and knives through flesh. Everyday he lives and breathes the same air as the others, it burns his lungs worse than the nicotine from his cancer stick, it burns, reduced to ash and smoke.

Hell rains around him, and he isn’t so sure if his ‘friends’ see it as well, but judging by the lost look in Belch’s eyes, he sees it too. Another loser caught up in a tricky spiderweb. It doesn’t matter, they aren’t friends. No, none of them are his friends, in fact. Henry and Patrick? Psychopaths. No, fuck, they aren’t his friends. God, are they?

Every morning he wakes up and looks in the mirror, and all he sees is the monster under his bed who slices their name into a kid’s stomach and slits their father’s throat while he’s sleeping. Dark, purple bags under his eyes and a paper-thin face, showing his veins underneath. Dry, crusted lips that crack and bleed from the sickness they spew and take in. Blonde hair and black lungs. 

It’s not a marvel he’s become this, he’s a follower by nature. Some could consider Victor smart, but Victor didn’t. He was weak. Crafty to get out a situation he wanted no part of. He calculated who belonged where and which place was the best place to be, to avoid everything they (he, now) did. 

He sees those stupid, smartass kids and all he wants to do is to tell them to shut up and stop, because he knows Henry has a taste for blood, and Patrick wants so much more. Skinny, spider-like Patrick and his hairspray-lighter combination. Victor doesn’t want that, he can’t handle any more fire in his life right now, he needs to let it happen. 

He sees himself in them, maybe if he was a better person overall or maybe a bit more realistic to himself. Spitfires, all of them, middle fingers and rock fights that Victor loses on purpose. Letting their rocks hit him in the temple, because god, they don’t see it either. They don’t see the hellfire and charred remains that follow him everywhere, they don’t see the way Belch looks at Victor after Henry does something outrageous, just to see if it was actually happening. 

One late June evening, Victor burns himself with the truth, and yeah, now he really sees what he’s become. A regretful villian in this sideshow, blood on his hands and he’s not sure whose it is. It could be from so many people, and he tries not to think about it as he washes his hands in the sink. It’s not quite so late, it’s actually only 8:00, but Victor doesn’t care much for time anymore. 

He has stopped talking to everyone. Henry, Patrick, hell, even Belch. Victor likes to think that if he lived in a bigger city, a better town, he could off himself and nobody would know or care. Derry doesn’t care, but it knows. Every wall has ears and every raindrop whispers about his sins to him at night. It's been two weeks since he stopped talking. Henry has tried to break into his house twice, slamming up against the door loud enough that Victor’s little sister called the police. A rock has been thrown through his window, with the words ‘FAGGOT’ written across it in red, bloody letters. It’s clearly not blood, but the thought of it makes Victor clench his teeth together tightly. 

There happens to be a last straw in this story, just like all the others. Patrick corners his sister in the alley besides the pharmacy, he threatens her. She kicks him the balls (Victor taught her that) and runs, runs back home and into Victor’s arms. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much fire in his life. As she cries and cries, he blinks and sees. Like a bullet flying from Henry’s father’s gun, it strikes him and weeps, because he isn’t seeing fire. He is the fire. A walking bonfire craving to be put out and calmed. A wildfire that spreads and kills the person who set it. After she falls asleep, he debates with himself over a new plan. 

No, she can’t be left alone, that is a certainty, but she cannot come with him, that’s worse. She can’t stay in the house, hell, he can’t stay in the house. His paranoia is deeply rooted, because he knows how Henry’s mind thinks when it’s bloodlusty. He can’t even go to a friend’s house, because he has no friends. He has to work with a stranger. A neighbor’s house? Someone trustworthy- someone like,

Bill Denbrough. 

The blue-eyed stutterer that drags his friends into stupid shit they don’t need to care about, the one with the missing brother, the one he viciously bullied every year. Yes, he needs to speak to him without an angry fight. 

He spends the entirety of the next day sitting in his sister’s room with her, locked from the inside and with a sharp steak knife next to his leg on the floor while she plays with her dolls. He’s dialing phone numbers frantically into the set, wracking his brain for numbers from prank calls. Victor manages to hit one, a Beverly Marsh. 

The only reason he knows hers is because that’s what Henry and Patrick wrote all over the men’s stalls when they were all 16. He feels for her, he really does, because she isn’t all that bad. She’s a kickass redhead who inhales cancer and spits out something just as sickly to make her enemies spin. 

So he spends the next 30 seconds going over his words while it rings, don’t say Beaverly, don’t say Beaverly, don’t say slut-

“Hello?” Her voice comes through, solid teflon and gold. By the laughter in the background, he knows she’s with her friends. The annoying kid who does the worst voice impressions, the squeaky kid with the fanny pack, Bill, Stan, and two other kids who are very new to the group. 

The only reason he knows Stan is because they had a partner project together, and Victor could see the existential dread in his tired eyes from this prospect. The kid isn’t that bad, in fact, he was a bit of a smartass, dry wit delivered in ways that could probably make Patrick burst out laughing. He always did feel the worst for Stan, because he got it the worst, simply for breathing. Victor remembers a cold wintery day, with Henry and Patrick (always them) rubbing pure white snow into Stan’s cheeks until scarlet came out. Victor couldn’t breathe, so he mouthed ‘I’m sorry.’ He doesn’t know if Stan saw it. 

“Uh, hey-” As expected, he was immediately cut off. 

“For fuck’s sake, is this Victor Criss? I thought I told you and your gang that if you called this number again I’d personally castrate each and everyone of you,” She hissed into the phone, and he distantly heard the sudden absence of laughter from Bev’s side. 

“Not my gang anymore,” He replied simply, waiting for her response. He was always a man of few words, simple, easy shit that you didn’t have to think about. Nothing was beautiful about him, not the way he moved or spoke, nothing worth ink on paper and a poet’s name above it. 

“You’re shitting me,” Beverly rasped, and Victor couldn’t pinpoint any notes of emotion in her tone. Fuck, this was a dead end but it was the only shot he had. “You’re literally shitting me. No way in hell you dropped the Bowers gang and remained alive,” 

“That’s actually why I’m calling, well partly, at least,” Victor mumbled, eyeing the way his sister scribbled yellow onto a drawing of him. “Wanna say I’m sorry, I don’t expect any forgiveness, but you oughta know,” 

Beverly took a breath, and Victor took this as a signal to keep talking. 

“Truth is, I just didn’t want to end up a victim. I’m a bit of a coward, sure y’all know that by now though,” Victor sharply inhaled as his little blonde-haired sister dug into her crayons, searching for a mystery color at the very bottom. “Look, I’m a coward but my sister ain’t, and I don’t want Henry’s psycho ass feeling her up or anything, I need a place to stay where he wouldn’t find us,” 

“So, you want our help,” Beverly breathed, tapping her fingers against the phone, loud enough for Victor to hear. 

Victor wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but he continued on anyway, “Yeah, I guess I do,” Looking to his side, his sister had managed to find the color she wanted, a silvery blue color pencil, as long as her finger. “Just want my sister safe,”

His skin still jumped at every noise, every single shadow that looked out of place, every voice outside his house. His sister has already gone through two experiences with the Bowers, and he doesn’t want a third time. No, he needs to clean up his mess, no running away this time. Blood will almost surely be spilled, and it’ll probably be Victor’s. He’s not looking forward to trying to cover up the bruises and applying neosporin to the scrapes he’ll manage to get along the way, but that’s just a casualty.

“Okay,” Beverly breathed, hesitance vivid in her voice. Not that he blamed her, because he was who he tried to run away from, and maybe he won’t ever really be considered normal again, but it’s fine, fine because he won’t be carving kids and holding cats for Henry to shoot anymore. 

“Okay?” Victor furrowed his brows, hearing squabbling on the other side.

“Bring your sister to the Quarry, we’ll take care of her while you do whatever it is you’re doing,” Beverly said the last part sharply, knowing that it wouldn’t be pretty, but what about Victor was pretty? Was it the combat boots and clothes that smell like a forest fire? Or was it the dead, scared eyes that flickered around in bated breath for the inevitable? What would blood and bruises do to him other than scar his wasted skin?

“I really appreciate this, Bev,” Victor whispered, feeling very wrong for using her nickname. Beverly apparently felt the same way based on her loud scoff through the static. “Sorry, uh, don’t know why I did that,” 

“It’s cool, Vic,” She sneered his nickname, and Victor would have laughed if he didn’t hear Henry’s voice from a three letter word. “Bring your sister over here,” 

“Alright, see y’all,” Victor hung up. 

Victor’s paranoid brain left nothing to chance, so he covered up himself up with a hoodie and gave his sister one. The hoodie she had been given was camo, dropping down to her knees and underneath her fingertips on the sleeves. In his hoodie pocket, he grasped his knife tightly to his stomach, and with the other hand held his sister’s small hand. The quarry wasn’t too far from his house, two streets down and take a long left. 

His sister sang a song she had learned from the radio, ‘Material Girl’ by Madonna. Vic wasn’t opposed to it, but he had heard that song far too many times in Henry’s truck. 

It only took about five minutes for the two Criss’s to get to the Quarry, and upon arrival he was immediately greeted by a cold-faced Denbrough. Still with his stormy blue eyes and fringe. 

“Victor,” He spoke harshly, and Victor inwardly winced. 

“Bill,” Victor replied back, soft and forgiving in a way that he hoped Bill would get. Bill was a poet, wasn’t he? Maybe an author or something, Victor doesn’t really remember, but maybe that meant Bill would take more meaning to his words. 

“Who is this?” Beverly trotted over, standing tall and stony in a way that Victor had never seen her before. 

“Her name is Emily, please take care of her,” Victor ruffled the younger Criss’s blonde curls, causing her to squeak and laugh in a very three-year-old manner. “Thank y’all,” Victor nodded at Beverly, then sneaked a peek over her shoulder to the five other boys sitting on the rocks, staring back at him just as owlishly. 

“Don’t worry,” Beverly sighed, smiling sweetly at Emily’s rosy face. “She’ll be fine. Can’t say the same about you, though,” Bill took this as his cue, slipping his hand into Emily’s and leading her to the other boys to introduce them. Victor stilled, unconsciously rubbing the bridge of his nose that Henry had broken three years prior. 

“I probably deserve it anyway,” Victor snorted, watching the way Emily immediately grabbed Stanley in a big hug. “I know it means nothin’, but really, I’m sorry about all of that,” 

Beverly’s face didn’t soften, but she reached out and patted him on his clothed shoulder, a weary smile on her lips. “Good luck, you need it,” 

Victor never really considered himself to have bad luck, never had the clockworked concidences that others did. Sure, he’d gotten rained on before, got a bad grade on a test (many, many tests), all normal stuff. Apparently, karma was getting his kiss for him this week, because Victor heard the tell-tale rev of an engine behind him. 

“Well, well,” The scratchy, vile voice hummed behind him, and Victor didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Victor harshly grabbed the steak knife in his pocket, turning around and summoning the meanest face he could wear. Henry was sitting in Belch’s car, and Belch was not there. Patrick was in the back, his lighter and hairspray in hand. Fuck, well. “Henry,” Victor spoke as coldly as he could manage, remaining poker-faced to his worst enemy. 

“So, Victor’s a part of the faggot club now, isn’t he?” Patrick laughed, his spindly frame curled up in the leather back seat. Victor stood stalk-still, eyes carefully boring into Henry’s. 

“No, he’s not,” Beverly scoffed behind him, flicking out ashes on the end of her cigarette. “There’s a kid here, Bowers, at least move your fight somewhere else,” 

“I know that girl, Victor’s sister. Saw her at Keene’s the other day,” Patrick sneered, switching his lighter on and off multiple times in succession. 

“Get out of here, Bowers. We can do this somewhere else.” Victor spoke calmly, a futile attempt to calm his own fragile nerves. He knew that look in Henry’s eyes. Someone else’s defiance would set him ablaze. 

“I wanna do this here,” Henry growled back, stepping out of the car and standing in front of Victor. “Tell me, Criss, how many dicks you suck to get those dipshits to forgive you?” 

“None, ‘cause I’m not a coward that makes people forgive them. I’m not like you,” Victor spoke venom, at least 6 years of unspoken hatred finally coming out. “Just ‘cause you have daddy issues doesn’t mean you get to be a piece of shit,” 

The blow came, and it hit hard into Victor’s cheek. No, of course he wasn’t surprised by this development, he just hoped to get some more words out before it really started. He pushed Henry backwards, and felt his heart lurch when his sister screamed in the background. 

Victor took advantage of the fact that Henry was stumbling backwards, socking him in the stomach and collarbone in rapid succession. Henry should’ve been on the ground, but no, he was punching Victor in the nose now, making hot blood pour down his already bruised face and over his lips and chin. 

The fight continued, and Victor wasn’t quite sure why Patrick wasn’t joining in, he was just watching from the car, flicking his lighter on and off. Henry shoved him roughly onto the ground, and Victor took a vicious grip onto his shirt, making sure Henry came down with him. 

See, Henry looked physically imposing, but Victor knew better. He’d seen him get his ass kicked enough to know where to hit and when. 

Henry grabbed a handful of rocks, pushing them into Victor’s face and successfully scratching his skin open. Victor quickly retaliated, choosing to draw his weapon once and for all. Out came his steak knife from his pocket, miraculously not shanking him during the process. 

“Stay away from me, Bowers, you fucking psycho,” Victor cursed, holding the tool roughly in his scraped hands. Henry scrambled onto his feet, digging into his pockets for something. Victor could picture it now, his dad’s revolver tucked neatly into his jeans, the white-hot tip after Henry shot a cat in the junkyard. It really only just struck him that now he was the cat, struggling under hands that held him.

Henry apparently couldn’t find his weapon, because he looked to Patrick desperately. Like it was something as simple as an eraser in class, Patrick threw his hairspray, then lighter in quick succession. 

They stood there and stared for a beat or two, holding their tools of choice and seeing the blood that had already fallen. The others stood fuzzily in the background, watching the car crash that was the Bowers Gang. He could hear his sister crying, and it hit his muscles like an electric shock, without his brain registering it, he slammed into Henry, bringing the boy to the gravel again. 

Victor tried to press his knife to Henry’s chest, but Henry caught his arm and held it strongly above him. Victor struggled against his grip, and he had no choice but to flop helplessly as Henry flipped the situation. Now Victor laid beneath Henry, with the mulleted-boy struggling to grip the lighter and hair-spray at the same time. 

Victor kicked Henry in the stomach, then hit him square in the neck. Henry threw his fist forward into Victor’s nose, then dropped the hairspray and settled for the lighter. Flicking it on, he pushed it toward Victor’s neck. After a knee below the belt, Henry roared in pain and forced his arm forward to push it to Victor’s flesh. Like a wildfire. 

It happened like a wildfire, gone one minute and starting another, Henry dropping the lighter on the ground as he cursed and fell to the ground beside Victor. The bleach-blonde boy warily opened his eyes, the still-flashing fury of the lighter against his jugular choking him. Victor struggled to his feet, palm immediately to his bloody and burnt neck. He could vaguely hear words behind him, maybe Beverly or… Richie? That’s his name, right? Or is it Ronnie?

Henry hissed, coming to his feet and screaming curses at the others, before making some sort of violent vow as he went back into the car. Little black dots faded in and out of Victor’s view, his hand clutching the rocks beneath him like a lifeline and the other wrapped around the steak knife because it was a lifeline. He felt hands on his shoulders, people lifting his chin, speaking and waving in front of his face. 

The worst part, he heard his sister’s loud wails in the background. 

He woke up three hours later, trapped in a cocoon of blankets that all smelled strangely of mint. Untangling himself, he immediately felt the fervid pain still on his neck, and he announced it clearly with a loud hiss. 

The room he was in was tidy, pale like a hospital room but so comforting in a way that Victor wasn’t completely sure of. With the gentle click of the brass doorknob, in came the short asthmatic boy with bandages and neosporin. 

“H-” Victor’s voice cracked badly, and he rubbed his adam’s apple in embarrassment. “Hi, uh-” 

“Eddie,” The boy inserted, offering a slight smile. Eddie undressed Victor’s neck bandages, making him wince as the blood-soaked paper came away. Eddie applied the neosporin, seemingly not caring about how Victor hissed in pain when Eddie rubbed directly on his burn with the pad of his thumb. 

“Nice work,” Eddie said simply, not bothering to elaborate.   
“Uh, you too?” Victor whispered, voice broken from the sheer amount of screaming earlier. “Where’s my sister?” The thought hit him worse than Henry’s lighter, was she okay? Was she scared? Was she crying? Was she having a panic attack? 

“Calm down, you’ll mess with your burn. She’s fine, she’s sleeping on the couch with Beverly and Mike,” Eddie rolled his eyes, placing a thick bandage over the ragged burn. Victor could almost laugh, the usual asthmatic, hyper-sensitive Eddie Kaspbrak was the one calming him down. 

Victor relaxed his shoulders, waiting for the verbal lashback from the shorter boy. It never came, with Eddie working in silence before leaving the room. 

So this was where he was now. 

He had no friends, he terrified his sister, and he had an ugly burn scar on his neck. Sitting upright, he noticed the way blood still stuck to his hands and shirt. Brown and metallic-smelling, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

The door opened gently, and he saw Stanley Uris and Beverly Marsh there. Victor wanted to scream, because the way they looked at him was not only one of pity, but suspicion and anxiety. Victor Criss, the boy who fought Henry Bowers and survived. Fucking ridiculous. 

“Hi,” He said simply, not bothering to try to twist his neck in their direction. “My sister okay?” 

“She’s fine, a little spooked, but fine,” Beverly whispered, sitting on the bed next to Victor. “Nice work, with that daddy issues line. I liked that,” She smiled, though it wasn’t entirely genuine. Stanley stayed standing, anxiously rubbing his thumbs over his knuckles over and over again. 

“Don’t know why I did that, I’m such a moron,” Victor confessed, running a fingertip over his scratched cheek. It was raw, but the ointment Eddie applied seemed to be helping. 

“Why did you do it?” Stanley blinked, crossing his arms across his chest like he was ready to lunge to protect Bev at any sign of attack, even though she would not need it. 

To be honest, Victor wasn’t sure. It was everything amounting up into one thing, all the slurs and carved names and dead cat remains. If you can’t beat them, join them, they said. Victor disagrees. 

“Alot. Alot of reasons,” Victor rubbed his chin, looking downwards at the quilt over his body. “Psychopaths, the lot of them. Was only there for protection, you know? Until I realized how much of a coward that makes me,” V ictor shook his head solemnly, unable to look Stan in the  
eyes. He had to admit, the boy was intimidating, especially with the way he crossed his arms and stood pin-straight. 

Stanley said nothing, but he relaxed his shoulders slightly, before joining Beverly on the bed. Victor couldn’t resist pinching the area between his brows, trying to make sense of the entire day. The whole encounter was a blur, fists and the cold, bitter feeling of intense heat against the veins in his neck. 

“I knew you weren’t like them,” Stanley started, but his voice was croaky, and he avoided Beverly’s questioning gaze. Beverly voiced her questions, with a small ‘huh’ and the furrow of a brow. The two boys stayed silent, Victor staring at his bruised knuckles and Stan staring at the floor. 

“We were partners for a project once, remember?” Stanley remembered aloud, recalling grade 9 in Ms. Yatko’s class. Egyptian Gods and Goddesses, he remembered. “I thought you were gonna slack off the entire time, or make fun of me, but you didn’t. It was actually kind of fun,” 

“You guys hung out?” Beverly voice hitched up half a decibel, and Victor knew why. Their little group of friends had a strict unspoken code, and that was to never associate with the enemy. Victor remembered his past behavior, and he knew he’d never be able to properly apologize to Beverly. 

“To get the project together, yeah,” Stan said, “Went to Denny’s. Remember the big family with the super loud baby?” 

Victor smiled, despite the fact that it stretched open his scratches on his dimples. “Yeah, I remember, we made fun of them the whole time, same with that guy napping in the corner booth,” 

“Yeah, and the waitress had to ask him to leave,” Stan snorted, but his small smile dropped quickly. “Victor,” 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” 

There it was, the question that haunted most of his waking moments. His weak-willed nature and cowardess that landed him in the lion’s den, disguised as one of their own, prevented him. The worry that those words would be his last, another reason. But it’s selfish, selfish really to care more about his copper blood then of another human being’s blood, isn’t it? Cutting glass snow on Stan’s cheeks, dog shit in Richie’s backpack, the letter ‘H’ scarred permanently into Ben’s stomach. 

“I was selfish.”


End file.
